


i haven't got the words for you

by Muir_Wolf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexuality, M/M, Poor Lestrade, biromantic, explorations of sexuality, liking other people is weird and confusing right?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muir_Wolf/pseuds/Muir_Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock/Lestrade, Sherlock/John.  Sherlock is an idiot.  Except when he's not.  (But he usually is.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	i haven't got the words for you

**Author's Note:**

> Written for queer-fest, prompt was: _Sherlock Holmes/any character, He's asexual, not aromantic. You'd have to be an idiot not to understand the difference. Unfortunately, most people are._

“Sherlock,” Lestrade says, his voice turning low as Sherlock presses him back against the wall.

“Shh,” Sherlock says, “they’ll hear you.”

“Are we undercover?” Lestrade asks, confused and feeling out of his depth, which isn’t doing anything to lighten his irritation. Sherlock’s eyes are intense as he leans further into his personal space. Lestrade tries to clear his throat, but Sherlock’s eyes slip to the side and then suddenly he’s pressed all the way in, his lean body taut against Lestrade’s.

Lestrade opens his mouth, unsure of what to say but sure that _something_ needs to be said, but then Sherlock’s mouth is warm on his, hesitant and careful as their lips meet and separate, meet and part, Sherlock’s tongue darting against the edges of Lestrade’s lips, his fingers creasing the thin coat Lestrade is wearing. Lestrade’s pulse throbs noticeably at his throat, but his own fingers curl into the belt loop of Sherlock’s trousers entirely without meaning to, and there’s something easy and almost friendly in kissing the man.

When they pull apart, Sherlock looks surprised, but Lestrade’s grinning a bit too widely for a man that’s just about as straight as they come.

“Are they gone?” he asks, keeping his voice low and trusting Sherlock’s hearing and special sixth senses to be just as accurate as peeking around Sherlock’s shoulder. Besides, he’s rather comfortable where he is, leaning against the wall with Sherlock pressed against him.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, sounding surprised that Lestrade knew it was for disguise and distraction. He steps back, and Lestrade grins and claps him on the shoulder as he shoves off the wall.

“Well then,” he says, “up for more reconnaissance?”

 

 

Lestrade really could've done without the incoherent three am phone call, and he's thinking of all the ways he could murder Sherlock and never be found out (mostly because Sherlock wouldn't be around to solve it), as he drives over to Baker Street.

He doesn't hammer on the door like he wants to, because unlike Sherlock he's isn't an inconsiderate jackass, and he doesn't want to wake up Mrs. Hudson. When Sherlock finally yanks the door open, though, Lestrade uses every inch of his not unintimidating frame to back Sherlock.

“You rang?” he asks, narrowing his eyes and generally hoping to get his unhappiness over to the brat. Sherlock lifts a shoulder and lets it fall, clearly unbothered.

“I had a thought about the case,” he says. 

“The case that we stayed up all night yesterday solving? That case?” Lestrade asks. Sherlock sits down in his seat and picks up a cup of tea, glancing in it cautiously.

“I was thinking—”

“What, do you think you got something wrong?”

“I didn't get _anything_ wrong,” he practically hisses. Lestrade bites back a smile, which really isn't that hard because even though he's amused it's still three something in the morning and sleep really would've been the preferable option.

“Why am I really here?” he asks. Sherlock swirls the cup of cold tea and doesn't answer, and Lestrade huffs out a sigh. “I guess I should be glad I'm dealing with this, and not with a drugs bust, hmm?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he says stiffly.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade huffs out, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck, “you could just have asked me to come over.”

Sherlock sets the tea carefully back on the table, and stands back up. His elbows are tucked in toward his body, and his limbs look uncertain. Lestrade loosens his shoulders and eases a step closer.

“Is this about earlier?” Sherlock asks.

“I don't know,” Lestrade says. “Is it? I was the one that was fast asleep, and you were the one that texted me to come over on false pretenses.”

“I think you have the wrong impression.”

“I think I don't have any impression at all, because you aren't saying anything.”

Sherlock's eyes skim over Lestrade, and Lestrade watches him, wondering what he's deducing and what he sees in Lestrade's own tired frame. Whatever he sees, it seems to relax something in him, because Sherlock's body pools out slowly in release, his arms freed from the prison of his chest, his jaw loosening.

“You kissed me back,” Sherlock says. “You're straight, but you kissed me back.”

Lestrade hasn't exactly been expecting this conversation, and he'd have liked a little preparation and a little more sleep beforehand, but he stifles a sigh and leans against the wall.

“There's a lot of grey when it comes to relationships,” he says. “You don't have to be straight or gay or anything. You don't need to label yourself anything.”

“But you're straight,” Sherlock says. Lestrade scrunches up his nose.

“First off, you shouldn't label people like that, it's rude. Second, I'm heterosexual, yes, but I've always been biromantic, and the kissing of you is more of the romantic and less of the sexual, and also it was for the case, and you smell nice.”

Sherlock paces up and down the apartment, his arms behind his back, his mouth set in a puzzled frown.

“You think I smell nice?” he says at last, which wasn't really the important part of Lestrade's speech, but does actually settle a lot of things.

“Just so I understand, sex isn’t your thing, right?” Lestrade asks, his eyes locked on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, his lip curling slightly.

“I’ve no interest in it,” he says. Lestrade nods, his shoulders loosening slightly.

“All right,” he says, “you’re ace and I’m straight, good to know. Lookit us, we’re getting to know each other better already,” he grins impetuously, knowing it’ll irritate Sherlock. It does, but Sherlock tries very hard to keep his face serene. Lestrade sprawls out on the couch and pats the cushion next to him meaningfully. “Come here, then.”

“Inspector—”

“ _Detective_ Inspector,” Lestrade smirks. “And you’re not the only one that can resort to blackmail. Come and sit or maybe I won’t give you anymore cases, hmm?”

Sherlock’s lips twitch briefly up at that. “You’re far too concerned with justice to stick to that,” he drawls, “try something a bit more believable.”

“Mm,” Lestrade says, “you’re probably right.” His voice is still easy, and Sherlock eyes him suspiciously.

“I’m always right,” he says, watching Lestrade closely for any sort of reaction. Lestrade just smiles amiably. A minute passes slowly, with Lestrade sitting there with an innocent sort of smile, and finally Sherlock growls underneath his breath and stalks over to sit next to Lestrade.

“You’ve never been one for patience, have you?” Lestrade says. He rubs his rough fingertips along the edges of Sherlock’s smooth, ink-stained fingers for a moment, and then turns his hand and weaves them together. Sherlock watches silently, an intensely curious look in his eyes as he lifts their joined hands, examining them.

“You're not about to start quoting poetry at me, are you?” he asks, falling a bit short of sharp. Lestrade grins.

“Why, do you want me to?” Sherlock's lips quirk up, and then he falls silent.

“If you expect more of me than I'm—”

“The only thing I _expect_ of you,” Lestrade cuts in, “is that you're drive me batty and help solve my crimes, even when I don't want you interfering. That's the only thing I require. That and maybe to not call me at three am anymore.”

“That's non-negotiable,” Sherlock says, his finger skimming the length of Lestrade's.

 

 

“You know he’s cheating on you,” Anderson says. He’s leaning against the wall, and Sherlock pauses momentarily as he sweeps through the hallway. It’s not often that anyone dares bring up Sherlock and Lestrade’s relationship, but Anderson has never done well with being shown up.

“Save your breath, Anderson,” Sherlock says sharply, “your lack of understanding of the situation is mortifying even from viewing distance.”

“Hey, I just thought you’d want to know that he’s been fucking a shopgirl,” Anderson shrugs, his lips twisting maliciously. Sherlock narrows his eyes at him.

“Her name is Erin, and other than the fact that she’s a complete idiot I fail to understand why you wanted to inform me? He is straight, after all,” Sherlock says, and then rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. “Oh yes, I see, your _complete lack of understanding of the situation_. Honestly, how you get on in day to day affairs truly boggles me.”

 

 

Lestrade comes over that night. Sherlock is playing, so Lestrade pours them both a glass of wine and waits patiently until Sherlock puts the violin down and sits on the couch.

“I heard you were sounding off about our relationship at a crime scene again?” Lestrade prompts. His voice is neither reprimanding nor gentle, which is good as Sherlock is fairly spoiling for a fight.

“You should transfer Anderson. Or fire him. Or we could give him to Molly—wrap him up in a nice body bag and—”

“Are you bothered by Erin?” Lestrade cuts in.

“Why would I be bothered by Erin?” Sherlock huffs out, frustrated. He stands abruptly, and Lestrade catches his hand and pulls him back down to the couch. Sherlock is full-out glaring now, and Lestrade puts his hands up, placating.

“There’s something more going on here than Anderson being a prick, but I’m not as bloody quick as you, Sherlock, so you might need to actually use your words.”

“Of course I'm not bothered by _Erin_ ,” he practically spits, “it's understandable that you'd need to find other outlets if I'm not enough—”

Lestrade drops Sherlock's hand and jumps to his feet, full-out enraged in a way Sherlock's rarely seen.

“Not _enough_ for me? First you throw her in my face and tell me that it's unhealthy for me to keep my sexual urges pent up, and then you set me up on a _date_ with the girl without telling me what's been going on, and then you guilt me and tell me I'll learn to resent you, and after _two dates_ you're back here telling me you think I think you're not enough? I never even slept with her! You can't put this on me, Sherlock!”

“Well, you like women and you like having sex, so obviously—”

“No, there's nothing obvious here! You're far too caught up thinking sex is a necessary component of a relationship, but have you ever even had sex? Have you seen it? Have you ever watched a porn or heard two people rutting like animals through thin apartment walls? I bet you have, back when you were strung out all the time—all that grunting and panting and sweat-slick bodies, right? And you think that if I don't get that with you I'm just going to run out on you, and do you have any idea of how that makes me feel? As if you're just waiting on me to cheat on you and run off on you? Sex isn't what makes a relationship, being committed to a relationship, that's what does it. And if you're busy waiting for us to fail, then you aren't committed.”

“Do you want to end this?” Sherlock asks, and his blood thrums loud in his veins and even he isn't sure what he wants the answer to be. Lestrade deflates, a little, but there's still no give in his shoulders.

“I want you to be _in_ this,” he says.

 

 

They drag Lestrade out from the basement where he's been kept in for the last three days and ten hours, and Sherlock grabs him away from the medics and the other officers.

“You idiot,” he says, “how could you let yourself be kidnapped?”

Sherlock continues the insults as his hands skim over Lestrade’s shoulders and then down his arms, checking him for any injuries and ensuring that he is, in fact, safe and sound and whole. Lestrade stands there patiently and puts up with all of it.

Finally, he catches Sherlock’s hand in his and tugs him towards the police cars, his thumb rubbing a small circle against the back of Sherlock’s hand.

“Come along,” he says. “You can keep me company while I debrief, and then I’m going to drink all the liquor in London.”

 

 

The breaking up part of it is after John shows up in all his glory. Lestrade lasts a few months with Sherlock disappearing with John and forgetting to call and finally he calls it a day. Which is why he's so irritated when at the Christmas party Sherlock says his ex-wife is screwing the gym teacher. Afterward, he pulls him to the side, anger practically radiating off of him.

“No,” he says. “You don’t get to be jealous, Sherlock.”

“I’m not jealous,” Sherlock scoffs, his lips curling, and Lestrade narrows his eyes.

“You’re the one that went off with John, and I’m happy for you, but you _don’t_ get to be _jealous_.”

“I’m not with John,” Sherlock says after a moment. Lestrade frowns, leaning against the door, arms crossed in front of him.

“You aren’t?”

“John’s straight,” Sherlock says. “And I’m not interested in relationships.” Lestrade looks even more irritated as he pushes off the door and steps into Sherlock’s personal space.

“First off, _I’m_ straight. Second, fuck off, don’t you dare try to trivialize what we were. We weren’t fucking, no, but we sure as hell were in a relationship, you prick. Third of all, it’s pretty fucking apparent that John is head over heels for you, and probably doesn’t know what the fuck that means since he’s straight, so maybe you could get your head out of your arse and actually help him figure things out.”

Sherlock stands his ground as Lestrade gets in his face, and something irritatingly affectionate curls in the pit of his stomach as he looks at the DI.

“You could talk to him,” he says, trying to keep his voice serene, but it’s slipping a bit towards uncertain, and he’s having none of that.

“I think I’ve cleaned up enough of your messes,” Lestrade says, and he sounds almost…hurt. Sherlock’s much more used to Lestrade being faintly amused, and he looks momentarily flummoxed as he stares at the other man.

“And I haven’t cleaned up enough of yours?” he says sharply. Just like that Lestrade’s face closes off, and he takes a step back.

“Try not to fuck everything up this time,” he growls, and then turns on his heel and is out the door before Sherlock can decide whether or not to follow. He tugs at the wrists of his coat before going back inside, and when John looks questioningly at him, Sherlock pretends not to notice.

 

 

“John,” Sherlock says stiffly. “I told you once that I was married to my work. You might have guessed there's more to it than that, and Lestrade seems to think—” Sherlock breaks off, looking somewhere between irritated and nervous, and John frowns.

“You don't have to tell me anything if you're uncomfortable,” he says. Sherlock scoffs.

“I'm hardly uncomfortable. I _am_ under strict orders to, in Lestrade's charming words, 'not fuck this up,' so bear with. I have very little use for labels, but from Lestrade's surprisingly detailed description, I suppose I would fall under asexual. That does not mean I am aromantic.”

“So you don't like sex?” John asks. It's clear he's trying extremely hard to be open and comfortable with the conversation. He's refusing to break eye contact now, which is probably meant to be reassuring but which Sherlock is finding to be quite off-putting.

“I have no interest in sex,” Sherlock says. “That does not mean I don't care for people, or wish to be intimate with them.” His lip curls a little as he speaks, and it's painfully clear that he's not enjoying the discussion. “I don't understand why Lestrade just couldn't talk to you,” he adds underneath his breath, annoyed, and John frowns.

“What exactly is going on, and why is Lestrade so involved? Is this about a case?'”

“Lestrade and I were in a relationship before you came,” Sherlock says bluntly. John stares at him for a moment.

“Lestrade is gay?” he asks, faintly disbelieving. Sherlock feels his jaw click. His lack of enjoyment in this entire matter has officially boiled over.

“Clearly Lestrade is not gay, given the way he goes about eyeing and screwing most of the female population. Your question _should_ be if he's bisexual, but that would also be incorrect. After experimentation, I can say with confidence that Lestrade is not aroused by a penis.”

John makes a face somewhere around a wince, really not needing to think about Lestrade with penises, but braves on. “But you said you two were in a relationship.”

“Relationships don't have to be sexual, John. Lestrade is biromantic. And he thinks you are, as well.”

_There,_ Sherlock thinks, tearing the plaster off in one quick tug. John stares at him, open-mouthed, for forty-nine seconds.

“Pardon?”

 

 

“He's just figuring things out,” Lestrade says soothingly. Sherlock nods. His face is impressively blank, so Lestrade pulls him closer and then massages Sherlock's scalp with his fingertips, the way he used to do when Sherlock would curl up with him in bed. “Want me to go beat him up?” he asks, his voice light, and Sherlock sends him an amused glare but stays silent.

Lestrade really ought to be angry at Sherlock showing up at his flat randomly, always expecting Lestrade to drop everything for him. He really, really ought to be angry. Instead he flips the television on and finds an old black and white movie for Sherlock to watch, and slowly untangles himself from Sherlock's excessively long limbs to make tea.

Sherlock doesn't say anything more on the subject, but he does follow Lestrade into bed, his curly head settling on the pillow next to Lestrade's.

And Lestrade, as always, gives in and doesn't push.

 

 

He does talk to John.

(Of course he talks to John.)

(He probably should've just talked to John in the first place, but really he doesn't want to be in the middle of their relationship and yes, Sherlock, he does actually have feelings, and yes it was a complete bastard thing to do when Lestrade hasn't quite gotten over him.)

(It would've saved quite a bit of time, though.)

 

 

John, of course, is in the middle of an identity crisis, as one does.

Lestrade is a _police officer_ , he should not be having to spend all of his time comforting two men that refuse to adequately express their feelings and use words and figure out the levels and meanings and difficulties and truths inherent in love.

He is a _police officer._

This is not his division.

 

 

Sherlock, eventually, probably mostly as an afterthought, texts Lestrade and lets him know he and John are having dinner. 

It's not until Lestrade gets home, and at first thinks his flat's being burglarized, that Sherlock bothers to inform him that the dinner they're having is with Lestrade, evidently in Lestrade's kitchen. John just smiles a lot and waves the tomato sauce around as Lestrade rants, and Sherlock goes into a very long and confusing speech about sharing, and it takes a lot longer for Lestrade to figure out that sharing means _sharing_ , and—

Well.

It's not as if Lestrade's not comfortable right where he is, sitting with the two of them. It's not as if he doesn't know better than most that relationships never have to be black and white.

He eats the spaghetti, and for once let's someone else rein Sherlock in.

 

 

_Finis_


End file.
